


Notes

by AnonymousSong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Band!Lock, Gen, M/M, Music!John, Punk!lock, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:41:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousSong/pseuds/AnonymousSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a scholarship student with an open position in his band. Then he stumbles upon a certain violinist.</p>
<p>(For FuckYeahTeenLock's PunkLock contest)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notes

**Author's Note:**

> This was so quickly written so IT'S KIND OF HORRIBLE
> 
> OH GOD REALLY DON'T READ IT
> 
> This has not been Brit-Picked or really edited. Whoops I'm such a procrastinator.
> 
> I plan to eventually continue it, I promise. :3

“John, your mother’s here, sweetie.”

Mike grabbed the still waving cymbal and Greg took his foot from the pedal of the keyboard, both watching him. The sudden jarring silence made his stomach churn and he twisted his lips up into a trying smile.

“Oh, uh, okay, Mrs. Lestrade. I’ll be right up.”

“You can call me Emma, dear, it’s fine.”

“Thank you, Miss Emma,” he nervously tried.

She just gave him a soft smile and went back into the house, leaving the three boys in the garage alone.

“It’s just my mum, mate, you don’t have to get all nervous ‘round her,” Greg joked, stretching his arms out, his leather coat riding up. He rolled his neck and stood, getting his feet to wake up.

“Shut it, Greg. You know I don’t mean to. It’s just… adults, you know-”

“I know, I know. You don’t like big, scary adults.” The black-haired boy clapped a hand to John’s shoulder. “Couple more years, and you’ll be one. Well, not exactly a big adult-”

“Piss off, Greg,” John grinned, shoving the other, taller boy away. “I’m just late on growing is all. Watch, I’ll shoot right over you, just give it a year.”

“Mate! I’ve been giving it ‘a year’ since we were little tykes! Even Mike is taller than you now!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mike asked, an amused lift to his lips.

“Oh nothing, just that most of the girls in our class are taller than you.”

Greg laughed and ducked the drumstick that was thrown at his head. John finished packing up his guitar.

“All right, I’ll be seeing you, you wankers. Actually work on that solo part, would you, Greg? Won’t kill you,” John asked as he was leaving.

Greg groaned, holding up his fingers. “I can only play so fast!”

“You’re the one who wrote the bloody part! Don’t write what you can’t play!”

“See ya, John!” Mike waved.

John gave a small wave back. “Next Sunday, boys.”

“Bye, John! Have fun at your fancy nancy school!”

John shut the garage door to Greg’s cackles and made his way through the house. He gave a nod and a muttered goodbye to Miss Emma and headed out the front door to where his mum was parked, waiting for him.

“Did practice go all right?” his mother asked as he slid into the car, clutching his guitar between his knees.

John shrugged a bit as the car started moving. “It went fine. We really need another person, though, a singer.”

“Why don’t you do it, honey? I’ve heard you singing in the shower! You sound wonderful!”

A blush crept up to John’s hairline. “Mum!”

“What! I’m your mother, I have full right to listen to you sing.”

“Not in the shower!” John cried, mortified. He really didn’t need his mum listening in on his showers, Christ, that was too awkward to think about.

“Oh shush. I’m not pressing my ear against the door. Your voice just carries, is all. It’s very nice, John, really!” She was giving him a smile that assured him that she was right because she was a mother and she knew these things.

He turned away, pressing his forehead against the window. When he sighed, fog crept across the glass before it slowly disappeared. His mother continued talking, ranting about bills, Harriet and how ‘loose cannon’ she was being lately, and how John needed to make sure his grades stayed up.

John closed his eyes and wished for silence.  
\------

“-no choice. You asked for it.”

John sat up in bed, shouting out when a glass of very cold water was dumped across his face.

“What the bloody hell?!”

“John Hamish Watson, I do not want to hear that sort of language from your mouth again!” his mother angrily called from her room.

“Harriet poured water on me!” he cried in his defense, mopping said liquid from his face and bringing his knees up in an effort to hide his _usual_ morning wake-up call.

“My name’s Harry, pipsqueak, and I warned you that I would if you didn’t wake up.” Harriet stood at the headboard of John’s bed, calmly using his school ID to clean the underside of her nails.

“I was asleep. I can’t exactly hear you in my sleep!”

“Not my problem. Mum said to get you up, now you’re up.” Finished with torturing his card, she turned to him, already dressed and ready, even though her school started an hour after his. Her thick black eyeliner was done just so and her naturally brown hair was dyed black and spiked. It made her skin look even paler but accented her blue eyes magnificently. Despite numerous groundings and stern talks from their parents, Harriet - Harry - refused to change her wardrobe.

John huffed and wanted very much to flop back into bed. It wouldn’t take him long at all to get ready and he probably could have slept another fifteen minutes but there was the issue of his pillow being completely soaked. 

“You’re the worst sister ever,” he grumbled. Harry smiled, all teeth, before turning and leaving the room, clomping in her platform boots. Neither of them had really gained the advantage of height from their parents.

With a groan of sleep-deprived teenage frustration, John reluctantly slid out of his bed, softly hissing at the cold shock of the hardwood floor and checked to make sure no one was in the hallway before he scampered to the bathroom. Harry started blasting her music and John figured that if he kept quiet enough, no one would hear him in his morning shower.  
\------

Their car pulled up to the front of the school, brakes squealing ever so slightly. John tried not to wince at the sound.

“There we are, son.” His father beamed at John. Though he had inherited his mother’s blonde hair, both he and Harriet had gotten their father’s blue eyes.

“Thanks, Dad.” John clambered out of the car, keeping his eyes away from Henry Watson’s.

“Be brilliant and do excellent!” came the elated cry that echoed every time his father dropped him off. John tightened the grip on his bag but turned back to his father, a tight smile on his face.

“You know I will, Dad.”

“That’s my boy! Show those high noses just what a Watson is capable of!”

John gave a half-hearted wave as the car drove away. When the vehicle disappeared around the corner, his shoulders finally slumped. He turned and peered up at the school before him.

It was three stories high and made of old, red brick and climbing ivy. There was apparently roof access but John had never been up there; he didn’t even know where the door to the roof was and didn’t try to look for it.

His father had dropped him off to the side of the building, per John’s request, and so he made his way to the front. There were uniformed students milling around the front doors, the girls holding brand-named purses and boys practicing how to look down their noses. John felt like a ghost - no one looked his way or spoke to him and he slipped past them and quietly entered the school.

Classes weren’t to start for another half hour; his father always dropped him off early. Something about making a good impression.

John wandered through the halls, hands shoved in his black trousers. There was the buzz of chatter that was always present along with the sounds of the choir practicing. He walked towards that room, enjoying the soothing sounds. Perhaps he could get a choir student to join the band... He quickly scoffed at the idea. None of these students wanted to go near John. They all stayed away from the scholarship student with the second hand uniform.

A glance at the wall clock showed that he had twenty minutes left to waste. Maybe he could go down to the music rooms. They didn’t have any guitars but there was a gorgeous bass that the teacher let him play sometimes. The low notes vibrated through him whenever he plucked the strings and John couldn’t get enough of the feeling.

He meandered down the white hallway, an ear on the different instruments that were playing in the differents rooms, just audible through the not-quite-soundproof walls.

Very softly, just barely detectable above the other noise, John identified a violin. It was playing a low piece, something echoing and haunting, something that pulled at him. He moved towards the music. It was in one of the last practice rooms that he found the source.

A boy stood before him, tall and lean. He had a nest of black curls and had thrown the black jacket of his uniform across the back of a chair. With his white sleeves rolled up, John could see black wrist bands and black painted nails. With the aching sort of care similar to the touch of a lover, he drew the bow across the violin strings, pulling out trembling notes.

John stood rooted to his spot. The boy’s narrow back was to him and he felt somewhat guilty for lurking in the doorway like he was. He spotted a music stand with a sheet covered in ink and scratch-outs.

Suddenly, the boy stopped playing, the silence jarring. He picked up a fountain pen and quickly drew in a few notes on the page. John moved a step back, about to leave the boy to his music when the violinist tensed and turned very abruptly.

“What?” he snapped. His grey eyes blazed and the silver ear cuff stood out against his dark hair. There was a loose blue tie around his neck, despite the school uniform demanding a simply black one.

John raised his hands in a come-in-peace gesture. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to... Your playing was fantastic - got a little entranced,” he confessed, a hesitant laugh creeping out.

The pale boy narrowed his glare. “It’s rude to eavesdrop.”

“Yeah, sorry again. I’ll, uh, just go then.” John gave an apologetic smile and turned away. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling much like a balloon that’s been blown to the side by a hurricane but allowed to stay intact.

“Wait.”

He halted and looked back over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised.

“What did you want to ask?”

John blinked in confusion. There had been a sort of wandering question in his head, but he knew better than to voice it. “Ask?”

“Yes, of course. You have a question. What is it?”

“How’d you know I had a question?”

The black-haired student dramatically sighed, as if annoyed that John didn’t understand. He used the bow in his hands to point at John’s hands and started speaking precisely and quickly. “You lingered the doorway and showed me your hands when confronted - a gesture that means openness, so you’ve got something to say but,” he raised the bow upwards, “your shoulders - tense, slightly hunched, shows that you’re defensive so you don’t think what you’ve got to say will be accepted. Finally,” the bow was now pointed directly as John’s head, “your hand on the back of your neck - clear sign of distress, shows that you very much want to state something but are unsure on how to do so and realize that your time was running out. So, again, what is your question?”

A silence followed the boy’s speech. He turned to stare at the wall, violin securely on his shoulder, other arm resting at his side. John stood, now fully facing him, mouth agape. “That... was amazing.”

The boy’s eyes snapped up to meet his, wide and searching, though the expression disappeared and his face quickly went blank. “Was it?”

“Yes! It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.” The open-mouth awe was slipping into an easy smile.

“That’s not what people usually say,” the dark-haired musician admitted, instrument slowly slipping off his shoulder.

“What do people usually say?”

A grin crossed his face. “Piss off!”

A giggle found its way up through John’s lips and he stood clutching his stomach. A deep chuckle from the other boy joined his laugh. When they were both quite finished, John looked at the boy, with both of his arms at his side, violin gently held just above the floor.

“What’s your name?”

The violinist considered him for a moment, head cocked to the side.

“Sherlock Holmes. And you are John Watson.” At John’s confused look, he explained. “Obviously, based on your clothes, second hand, and your average looks and that your hair gel has already started to flake, it’s obvious that you are not rich, thus you got in on scholarship. That leaves three students in the school, one of which is a girl, the other of which I know. So, you are obviously the last - John Watson.”

Some of the air went out of him; it felt like it had been punched out. His mouth opened though he didn’t quite know what to say. John suddenly felt very much like he was being mocked.

“Look, I’ll just go-”

Another sigh from Sherlock. “I could care less if you were scholarship. In fact, it means you are actually somewhat clever so all the better. Now, that god awful bell is going to ring in two minutes. Your question?”

John reminded himself to breathe in and out. He gave a short cough to cover his smile. “Erm, it’s a little silly, actually, but would you like to join my band?”

Sherlock had been poised, ready to begin playing again but his body tensed at the question. Grey eyes raked over him with a raised eyebrow. “A band?”

“Yeah.” John went to rub the back of his neck but stopped himself. He stood straight and looked Sherlock in the eye. “It’s just me and my two mates on the weekend. We’re in need of a singer but I think a violin would be absolutely smashing.”

Sherlock stared, considering him. Silence was his response. It was drawn out, stretched and soon turned awkward. It went on long enough that John heard the bell going off, signaling class to begin soon. He looked out at the hallway where the other students were making their way to classrooms. When he turned back, Sherlock had moved to pack his violin gently into its case. 

John watched him for a quiet moment before slinking away, stomach in knots.

\---

It was a few days later when John spotted Sherlock again. He was just closing his locker, taking a small step back to avoid the door when he bumped into someone. 

“Ah, sorry!” he apologized quickly, turning to see who it was.

A humming noise greeted him while grey eyes gave him a look-over. Sherlock readjusted his knocked loose bag. John gave a half smile, not sure on the other boy’s attitude towards him. A twitch of the lips and a slight nod of the head was the reply before the violinist kept moving through the crowd.

The blond-haired student stood and watched him move away. He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed, though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. John arranged his books together in his arms before heading off in the direction of his next class.

Behind him, the sounds of the rugby players laughing together echoed. John continued on, ignoring them. 

He didn’t see the boys purposefully slam into Sherlock Holmes, making the bag on his thin shoulder drop to the floor. Nor did he witness how they kicked the bag away, scattering pencils and papers and notebooks; how fists clenched and grey eyes glared while the bigger students just chuckled. He didn’t rush over to help Sherlock gather his things while everyone turned away and averted their eyes, leaving the violinist alone in the hallway until all that could be heard was the tick of the clock on the wall.

\---

John stared at the piece of paper taped to the inside of his locker, as if it might bite him. He slowly reached up and pulled it off the metal, wondering just how the bloody hell someone got into his locker. There was nothing missing from the inside, just the little paper added.

On it was a set of numbers, thinly scrawled and signed ‘SH’. 

The warning bell for class played and John quickly shoved the paper into his pocket. He grabbed the books he had come to get and took off for his classroom.

The paper sat in his pocket all day; John couldn’t seem to take his mind off of it. He itched to pull out his mobile and send a text to the number, as it was obviously someone’s phone number, but he didn’t want to risk it. He couldn’t afford to get into trouble.

Once he stepped out of the building at the end of the day, though, he whipped his phone out. Then he paused. What to say? He didn’t even know who it was.

_Hello?_ he finally sent, a good a start as any.

Not moments later, a reply chirped in - _Hello._

John felt the urge to roll his eyes. How helpful. _Sorry but, who is this? How did you get your number into my locker?_

_Deduce it for yourself._

Stopping in the middle of the walkway, John narrowed his eyes at his phone, as if it had insulted him. Deduce it? Someone moved around him, shocking him out of his rooted spot. John continued his walk home. There wasn’t really any sort of hint as to who it was... Except the signature but what would SH stand for...

_I’m going out on a limb here but - Is this Sherlock?_ he replied, guessing.

_It would seem that your scholarship was not a fluke after all._ John wondered how a text could convey such a hint of smugness.

_Oh. Hello, then._ Why did Sherlock Holmes leave his number in John’s locker?

_You already said that._

_Yes, but I didn’t know who I was saying it to._

_I have not changed since you first sent it._

John actually laughed aloud at that, easily imagining narrowed eyes looking at him as though an idiot. Though why that image came to easily to his mind sort of confused him. _Fair enough. How did you get into my locker?_

_I picked the lock. You have a simple lock that even a primary student could have opened it._

He wondered if he should be offended by that. Instead, he was smiling. _So, you’re Sherlock, the master of locks?_

_Are you poking fun at my name?_

_Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?_

There was a lull in the conversation at that point. John finally looked up to see where he was. Thankfully, he was used to his walk home enough that his feet had automatically taken him in its direction. 

John quickly saved Sherlock’s number to his phone, just in time for the boy’s name to flash across the screen.

_Tomorrow_ was all the text read. 

_Tomorrow?_

John kept his phone on him the rest of the night, checking it just about every five minute but he didn’t get another reply.

\---

Lunch was usually the low point of John’s day. He could never seem to find an empty chair and the food wasn’t something he much cared to smell, much less eat. He’d figured for school that prided itself on its higher class students, they would serve higher class food. Then again, he was one of the few that got lunch from the school. Most brought their own from home, cooked by nannies or personal chefs.

The bigger tables had enough room for a dozen people but there were the few places for smaller groups of four. John managed to snag one at the edge of the room, surprisingly empty. He had heard a few students planning on leaving campus for lunch - something about one of the rugby player’s birthdays. 

He poked at the food on the tray for a few seconds before pushing the tray away and pulling out a folder of sheet music. There were a few points in the band’s latest song that were bugging him.

A bag was suddenly thrown into one of the chairs opposite him, startling him. John looked up as Sherlock slid into the seat across from him.

“The other members of your band don’t go here,” he stated as way of greeting.

The blond-haired student cleared his throat, “Erm, no, they don’t.”

Sherlock reached and grabbed John’s folder of music, the silver rings on his fingers clicking together. He made a move to take them back but grey eyes stopped him.

“You want me to join, I need to see your music,” he calmly explained.

John couldn’t really argue with that. Long fingers traced over notes written down in pen. He watched Sherlock’s eyes dart from line to line. A slight humming noise came from the dark-haired boy as he read the music.

“I was thinking of switching the chord for that section,” John said quietly.

“Yes, E would work much better.”

Silence fell between them but it was one that felt comfortable.

"So, how do you think a violin would sound with this?" 

Sherlock smiled very slowly. "I think it'll be brilliant."


End file.
